One Purpose

Cora Levinson arrived in grand style in Liverpool in March of 1887. She stepped off the RMS Umbria with her aunt Phyllis, four steamer trunks, two valises, a French ladies maid and one overriding purpose.

Belching steam engines filled the docks with haze and the smell of day-old fish, sweat and the press of people created an acrid and unfriendly atmosphere.

Life in New York accustomed her to the melt and shuffle of accents and classes, but her first impression of England was not quite so kind. The faces, when they bothered to look at her, were filled with judgement. She was too pretty. Too young. Too stylish. Too American.

It was as if they could see inside her heart, frail as blown glass, to the intention she had been set on by her mother.

"Go to England my dear," Mama instructed fervently, gripping Cora's arms so tight the young girl had nearly been frightened. "Make something for yourself. For my grandchildren."

And so Cora Levinson had been loosed on the London Season. Trunks, valises, ladies maid and one purpose.

To find herself a title.

Wealth bought jewels, furs, fine fashion, delicious food, gold, good music and gorgeous atmosphere. Wealth forced decent manners, cordial conversations and a strict (albeit backwards) sense of propriety. Wealth did not, however, breed good sense, a gentle tongue or any outward kindness to foreigners. It was a tight-knit, ridiculously judgmental little group of men and women who made a sport of gossip mongering and snide commentary.

So when Robert Crawley rescued Cora from the viper pit of Society matrons at some ball or another, she began to look at him as her knight in shining armor. His accent still seemed barbed, as though he was constantly impressing upon her that she was inferior, simply by speaking. But his eyes were warm and gentle, and he was careful not to let her see the calculation in his eyes. Her reputation preceeded her in his circles, because she laughed a little too loud. She dressed a little too daringly. She didn't quiet curtsy just right, and she had no idea the difference between a Baroness and a Duke. She infuriated his mother, which was a bonus.

Her blue eyes were full of romance and hope, and genuine good-will. Her dark hair could be unruly if not tended just right, but stunning when she slowed down and remembered to walk like a Lady.

Robert saw in her all his hopes and dreams for the future. He needed a wife with money, at least some breeding, an affable personality and a tolerance for his mother.

It didn't hurt that she seemed to believe the sun rose and set on his command.

Surprising exactly no one, Lady Violet was singularly unimpressed with the idea of Robert marrying an American, no matter what the cost to the family Estate. Robert pointed out, in a tone perhaps a bit too condescending even for him, that he doubted Lady Grantham would be disposed to the same sentiments should Downton crumble around her ears.

Her rejoinder, that at least she wouldn't have betrayed the family caste, was met with his stony silence. His mother would have them all believe that she was above such political schemes, and that she would gladly live in poverty to protect the family name. But Robert knew better than anyone that his mother counted on his match as much - if not more - than the rest of them. She simply didn't plan to suffer in silence.

Cora let him kiss her in the garden, late one night after a particularly taxing ball. The curl of his arm around her waist was so new and distracting, for both, and an escape from the cruel and prying world inside the double doors.

In the dappled moonlight she was wide-eyed, beautiful and terribly young, her lips bruised and swollen and curling into a shy smile when he backed away, apologizing profusely.

The blush staining her cheeks and neck, the press of her slender fingers against her pulse as she arched towards him just a little, set his blood on fire.

She slipped into his arms once more, lips upturned for his kiss, fingers grasping him closer at his elbows. She couldn't contain her sigh.

He wondered if one day he would be ashamed of making her think he was in love with her.

Perhaps her style, nouveau and not so refined, and her accent (distinctly American) had led her suitor and his family to believe that Cora was not exactly the brightest. Her kindness often gave way to the belief that she was shallow. But Cora had been sent to Britain armed with a goal and all of her mother's knowledge. She knew she was making a transaction, for better or worse, that would secure a title and perhaps a little shine to the Levinson family name.

Yet she couldn't help but see deeper, to the young man struggling beneath the weight of crushing expectation. She saw reflected in him her own struggle, to be the hope for the future when she wasn't even sure what she wanted out of her own life. She saw his good heart in the way he tried to protect her from Violet, held her hand at the theater, and was uncommonly good to those who served around them. She saw a man who would love and protect his children, even if he didn't love their mother, and would at least be generous, gentle and kind.

He was a man full of passion and humor, and there was no question that he desired her...and not just for the millions locked in her dowry.

And he was terribly attractive, which didn't hurt anything at all.

Marriage being what it was, the wedding was only remarkable because it was so unremarkable. All of the usual suspects filled the pews and Cora looked beatific in yards of white lace, pearls, and the family diamonds. They took each other, in health and misfortune, and poverty and in wealth.

They each suffered not to look self-satisfied.

There were restrained smiles and well-wishes, and a dinner to rival all in Downton, and an awkward wedding night that left Robert embarrassed for days.

And in a lock box in the Earl's study, was a piece of paper signed by young Cora Levinson that achieved her title and dissolved her wealth.

One husband. One title.

One purpose.

They would be lovers before they would be friends. Parents before true partners.

One girl. Two girls. Three girls.

They didn't wake up one day in love, but they fell there in shades. She tolerated his dog, he adored her wicked sense of humor. She was refreshing, silly, gentle and beautiful. He was quietly kind, a generous lover, and a good father. She allowed him to care for her; relied on him, not to be more than himself, but to simply be Robert. He entrusted her to bolster him, to hold his hand, and to be his partner. They grew up together, learned from each other, and became so inextricably bound with each others' hearts that they truly became one.

One life. One purpose.

One love.

(1/1)

A/N - Just a little lyrical bit of not-much-at-all that was me musing on how everything came to be. I think Cora gets short-changed a bit for being frivolous when she really is quite intelligent. It takes a woman with a backbone of steel not only to constantly face the Dowager day by day, but to manage an estate like Downton. I don't believe she was tricked into marrying Robert, nor do I think she was fully in love with him, either. She's far too pragmatic about things (especially where Mary is concerned) to have thrown herself into a love match and signed away her fortune just because. She can calculate with the best of them, although she is (and remains) more easily swayed by the romance of things. I truly believe that without the stabilizing force of the other half, neither would be the adults they've become. Robert could have been cold, distant and dispassionate without Cora. Cora might have grown to be vain, thoughtless and self-absorbed. It's a good thing they found each other, right? ;) That's my story and I'm sticking to it.